April 2006

You’d think girls would have nothing to do with this kind of behavior, but no. You’d go over there, maybe mention a girl you liked, one that caught your attention with her quiet intelligence, wholesome good looks and demure personal style, and Jason or Eric or one of those fuckers would go, “Aw, dude! I fucked her last week! I got her to lick my butthole!” And then they’d produce a photo or two, taken by whoever else happened to be in the room. And then they’d start skipping around and clapping and laughing, full of joy and life and ass-carrots, while your vision dimmed and everything that was right and true in the universe unraveled at your feet. Your sad, sad feet.

I would marry Bad News Hughes if:
a) I wasn’t already married
b) He didn’t frighten me a little
c) I didn’t think I’d end up peeing all the time from laughter
d) I didn’t think I’d end up DEAD long before my time, albeit in a hilarious way.
e) He had any idea who I was
f) He lived closer (because, um, I’m not into the long-distance thing)
g) Coffee could be married to him, too.

The truth hurts. Oh god, it hurts.

(From Tammie, via WNET.)

There is a song that my husband cannot hear without losing his shit, screaming like a banshee, and fleeing the room with his hands clamped over his ears and his mouth shouting, “LALALALALALALA!”. If the song appears on television, for example, it is my duty to mute the show. Or change the channel. Or, at the very least, to let him know when he can stop shouting, “LALALALALALA!” and act like a normal person again.

The song actually causes ME a great deal of stress. I am perpetually on the lookout for it – knowing that my hearing tends to be better than his – so I can either divert his attention or change the channel or do whatever it takes to prevent his shrieking. I fear the song will appear in a movie or a television show or at the mall. Worse, I worry that it will start playing somewhere that I can’t control it, and neither can he, and the people around us are forced to watch my husband flail about in psychic pain. I like to think he could just, I dunno, suck it up and just look uncomfortable. But I’ve met him. I know him too well.

Here’s the thing.

For the past week, the song has been embedded in my head. Deeeeeep inside my brain, it is playing on a constant loop with very few moments of respite. I could handle that – since Coffee cannot (yet) read my mind – but I have found myself galloping around the house SHOUTING IT without realizing. I have stood outside on the deck and hummed it. I have whispered it under my breath in the shower and in the car and, so far, I have avoided exposing my poor delicate husband to it.

I realize, of course, that if I happen to let it slip – more than a note or two – I am likely to find myself being smothered by a pillow until my body stops convulsing and my limbs are cold. And I’m trying really, really, REALLY HARD not to let that happen because my plans for death involve the words, “ninety years old” and “painless” and “younger man”. So please, give me a few ear worms. I know. I can’t believe I’m asking for this, either. But please, tell me what’s going on inside your head. Give me ANY SONG IN THE WORLD other than, um, this one. I’m not gonna’ name it; I know what kind of sadistic friends I have. (Yes, I am looking at you, Chz.) Please help me.

When I was young I told everyone I had a twin sister. One day, after we had been to see the relatives, my mother told me I was too old to play that game any more. So I stopped talking about her & after awhile, she finally went away. But I’m grown up now & I still miss her & I wish she would come back.

Cancer (June 21-July 21) This week, take things to the next level. Sure, you could be one of those people on Cops who cooperates, sheds a few tears and admits they “were just out of my damn mind.” But the stars urge you to be the person who kicks out the patrol-car window, leaps off the overpass into the ravine, breaks a leg, gets up and continues to run. That kind of gumption is testament to the human spirit. Embrace a similar energy this week — albeit one that’s more erotic than felonious.

(Nerve)

Have you ever been sitting alone on your sofa, on a very quiet day, casually reading a book of short stories that you’re really, really enjoying? Have you ever mindlessly flipped the pages, rubbing a dog-belly with your toes, when the dog attached to that belly begins to shriek as though you’re stepping on her foot? And not only does she shriek, but she begins to flop around on the floor, as if she’s having a seizure, because she’s so hysterical she can’t quite get her legs to coordinate?

Your heart begins to race as, finally, she does – at last – untangle her limbs and (still shrieking like a wounded seal) she runs toward the front door (which is closed and locked and there are no windows for her to look through) and she is skittering on the tile floor and howling and barking and pretending there are Storm Troopers one millisecond away from collapsing the door inward with a battering ram. She is deafened by her own howling and thus cannot hear you shouting, “ENOUGH! STOP THAT! WHAT THE HELL IS *WRONG* WITH YOU?!” and you start to think she will NEVER stop because you are positive this – THIS – is the moment at which she has finally lost her fucking mind and will howl for the rest of her days. Are you familiar with that? All of that? Did I mention that no, there’s no one at the door? And no, there’s nothing going on outside that hasn’t been going on SINCE THE WORLD BEGAN? Things like birds singing and wind blowing and leaves growing on trees?

THAT will be why I die of a heart attack in the middle of a quiet afternoon reading a book on a sofa. Fucking BEAGLE.

Good god, y’all, my stomach feels like someone drop-kicked a ham into it. A whole ham.
If you need me, I’ll be curled up in a corner whimpering (while the dogs try to eat the ham, no doubt).

Pray for Mojo.

This video? Brilliant…

(Stolen from Melle.)

Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

I’m all about avoiding the monkey butt, dontcha know.

(Poetic, eh?)

I wish it was possible to take a feeling – a moment of glee, say – and paste it into the little box in WordPress. That it didn’t require thought to express joy to you. Words aren’t always adequate. Sometimes it’s a bright yellow burst or a bird singing or the sensation of touching someone – and how the hell do you find the words to describe it?

Today has been filled with much sex – if I tried to transcribe it, you’d never understand. If I describe the various actions involved in the boinking, the undertones are lost and we’re left with a lacklustre form of erotica. If I describe the undertones, you’re left with a schmaltzy gushy love-addled paragraph (or ten). So, suffice it to say that all the stars are in the proper alignment for the sort of sex that just keeps happening spontaneously and with much giddiness, where all the parts fit perfectly no matter what position we fling our bodies into (or what location) and good god, it’s great.

Today has been about finishing a book that was so well-written that, without question, it transcends words. Even though it’s, um, filled with them. A book that I devoured because it was written in such a way as to be surprising and compelling and not at all what I had expected it to be. A book that compelled me to tell Coffee (repeatedly) how much I enjoyed it and how I wish I could have the author over for dinner NOW. I’d sleep with her, myself, just because she made me unspeakably cheerful with her writing.

There is a robin in my neighbourhood – singing and shouting – that fills me with bubbles of happiness. I could stand still forever and just listen to her sing at the top of her little-bird lungs. I literally feel this explosion of joy that defies description and it kills me that I can’t express it. If I try, I’ll end up sounding like a manic Susanna Moodie in the fucking woods. I hate Susanna Moodie; I don’t care how Canadian she may be. The robin, on the other hand, makes me happier than happy.

And see? I’ve described it all and it still feels hollow – there is just no way to describe pure joy.